The fading cheers reignited like dry grass catching fire. The audience sharpened their focus, and nobles who had sat with composed detachment now leaned forward slightly. The air had shifted. Once again, the arena became a ground of reckoning.
Viella D'Arceon stepped into the arena in chilling silence. Her silver hair was neatly braided, her expression calm, precise, like a judge before sentencing. Across from her stood Lyra Vernholt white robes flowing, the emblem of the Eastern Temple on her chest, embodying grace and sacred light.
But grace meant little here.
Viella wasted no time. A veil of fog descended, swallowing visibility. Lyra responded with holy incantation light shimmered in a protective ring around her. But then came the voices.
Not Viella's. Not real.
Whispers crawled into Lyra's ears her father's voice, her friends, her own. Doubt. Disappointment. Fear.
Lyra clutched her ears, the light faltered. She dropped her staff. Her knees gave out.
Viella didn't strike. She walked past, untouched by tension, merely whispering:
"Victory doesn't need blood. Breaking faith is enough."
Lyra didn't reply. She couldn't.
Cheers erupted. Names began circulating among the nobles.
In the noble tribunal, Archon Soren opened one crimson eye halfway.
"Interesting," he murmured—just loud enough for his attendant behind him to hear.
Selene Crowell entered next, her heavy blade resting on one shoulder. A descendant of a military house, she exuded presence intimidating and battle-tested. Her opponent, Klyven Arcturus, walked like he'd just woken from a nap, one hand hidden inside his robe, eyes half-lidded with disinterest.
Selene struck first fast and forceful. The ground cracked beneath her momentum. But Klyven had already vanished.
No teleportation. Just speed.
She swung again. Missed. Klyven reappeared behind her, a thin strike slicing her shoulder. Again, he vanished. Another hit her arm.
Selene growled. "Are you toying with me?"
No answer.
The ground beneath her suddenly iced over. Her footing slipped. Klyven stepped behind her, and with a swift knee to the back, dropped her flat.
Silence for a second. Then the roar returned. Not for brutalitythis was precision.
Theron Mallister stood calmly, hand on his sword, the other laced with moisture. Aster Roulant across from him cracked with electrical sparks, smiling with reckless confidence.
Aster charged, lightning lashing. Theron moved minimally, shrouding the field with mist and water. The crowd watched Aster rain down thunder but Theron wasn't fighting. He was baiting.
Aster summoned one final blast, a great arc of lightning.
But the ground was already wet.
Electricity surged through the arena and Aster, in the center of the storm, collapsed by his own force. Twitching. Defeated.
Theron hadn't moved from his corner.
The stands shook with thunderous applause. Not from spectacle but from control.
Three battles. Three styles. Three victories that shifted the tide.
Viella, with the calm of a predator.
Klyven, with silence sharper than steel.
Theron, with calculation that drowned arrogance.
And now, everyone was watching. Truly watching.
The empire had begun to take its new shape.